Louisiana Laydown by Jon Sharpe Page B

it,” Ratty said. “Go on through the gate and up to the door. Just knock and ol’ Charles will let you in to see the senator.”
    “No,” Fargo said. “You open the gate, Ratty. I think the two of you will make fine escorts all the way to the senator.”
    “Ain’t nothing going to happen to you, Fargo,” Puncher said. “He just wants to talk is all.”
    “Then he wouldn’t have sent heavy-handed thugs like you,” Fargo snapped. “Now get moving.”
    Ratty turned the handle and opened the gate, which squealed on its hinges. Tiny leaves from the ivy growing along the gate fell to the ground. “Go on in, boys,” Fargo said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
    “Aw, shit,” Puncher said. “I sure hope they don’t shoot us by accident.”
    “That would be a shame,” he said. “I’d feel awful.”
    “Mister, you wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if we both died.”
    “Not true,” Fargo quipped. “I’m willing to give them two asses—a Puncher’s and a Ratty’s. Now get inside and be quick about it.”
    They moved forward and Fargo’s eyes scanned the shadowy darkness.
    Beares’ men were there—he could feel them—and a telltale flicker of movement on the roof caught his eye. Two men were stationed up there, holding rifles.
    They were nearly at the front door, when Fargo barked, “Stop there!”
    Both men stopped dead in their tracks.
    “Senator,” Fargo shouted, his voice echoing strangely off the stone of the house. “Be a shame if we couldn’t talk because all your men were dead. Call them off or I’ll cut down Ratty and Puncher, and then those two men you’ve got on the roof.”
    A voice floated into the courtyard from an open window.
    “There’s no need for violence yet, Mr. Fargo,” it said. “Stand down, boys. This one can come in.”
    The front door opened and an elderly butler stood in the doorway. “Please, Mr. Fargo,” he said, his ancient voice cracking. “The senator will see you now.”
    “Keep moving, Ratty, Puncher,” he said. “I’d hate to have you slip away and leave me all by my lonesome. ”
    “Aww, shit,” Ratty mumbled. “Could this night get any worse?”
    “You could get dead,” Fargo said. “Now get inside. ”
    They stepped through the door and Fargo followed them, wondering as he did so, if getting back out again was going to present the same set of problems, only with his back to Beares’ men, instead of his front.
    It was an unpleasant thought, and Fargo knew that if he was going to get out of here alive, he’d have to play the game that was about to unfold very carefully.

7
    From the entryway, Fargo saw that to the left was some sort of parlor or living room, furnished with heavy, padded couches and chairs, formal lamps, and an air of stuffiness to it that reminded him of people with too much money and not enough hard work to do. In his experience, a little hard labor went a long way toward teaching a man the value of a dollar.
    The butler Charles moved with a kind of aging grace, his movements smooth despite the burden of his years. Fargo, with Ratty and Puncher in front of him, followed behind as Charles led them into another room to the right.
    Fargo had not entered a mere house. He had entered an entirely different world from the one he was used to. This was antebellum New Orleans, the world of money and high society, of vast parties and privilege, of carriages trimmed in real gold, of opera companies imported from Italy and France, of horse races where tens of thousands of dollars were spent on single events. French was often spoken within these walls and very real duels were sometimes fought at drunken outdoor parties on the land in back of these mighty mansions.
    Fargo wondered where the butler had been imported from. He certainly looked like the real thing. Formal but not unpleasant, businesslike but approachable.
    This room was more to Fargo’s liking: dark wood paneling, leather chairs with brass rivets, a fireplace on one wall, a bar